The Knight on the Landing
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: She'd sworn it would never happen to her again. For every decision, there are two courses of action. Two choices open to her, two roads. In short, upstairs or down.
1. Chapter 1

Part One: Knight Errant

Feet propped up on the table, hair loose around her face, she tried to take it all in. Her hand still gripped the phone, and it began to beep a steady dial tone as she stared into space, unheeding.

This was what it was like when your dreams came true? This horrible, sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach? Well, no surprise there, really, when she considered that the dreams themselves had been fairly horrible and sick themselves. She wasn't sure why they weren't classified as nightmares— she only knew that they weren't.

So all the fantasies of escape and capture, of haunting blue eyes and the moment when she abandoned all pretense of being in control, the times she could hear herself screaming in pain, a hurt that was a thin cover for a deep well of pleasure— salt on her wounds. His hands on her neck. Fingers like a wind through her hair. His mouth a cruel force more fundamental than gravity, the pull of it like a black hole, inexorable, undeniable. A deep shudder. Spots in front of her eyes, bright flashes of light like stars exploding. Walls enclosing just the two of them; suddenly they were in jail together. Bars. Handcuffs. Endless trappings of a different type of fantasy, black and silver and cold and painful, but he'd been strangely gentle up till now and she realized that it wasn't him at all; that she was alone in the cell.

Just because he escaped.

He should be dead. She would have killed him; she had intended to kill him; he should be dead. All that pain he must feel, all the raving the nurses said he did— spilling names, dates, details. A policeman came and took everything down, the tape recorder set up on the bedside table, the man jotting things down with interest. Not admissible in court, of course, but there was no use wasting perfectly good information. Even if it wasn't true, most of it made enough sense to stick.

He killed himself there, spilling secrets that were worth more than his life. Even if he lived, there wasn't any escaping vengeance from his superiors, his former associates, his angry victims. He should have stayed in the hospital. In jail or free, it was only a matter of time.

He had a fever and she woke up sweating. He thrashed and turned and screamed and she had nightmares. There was a knight on the landing and the sword swung both ways. She could duck it the first time, but it always cut her in two before she could escape out the door. Remnants of a dream she'd had from so many years ago, when she was too young to know what hurt was. When she was too young to know that pain could be a wonderful, clean-burning fire.

Escape. He was free now, and for how long before he was found? No one wanted to protect him. No one wanted him alive. Her fantasies were just that, fantasies, and he was far too smart to come back for her.

She'd sworn that she would never let it happen to her again.

That didn't stop her from going to happen to _it_.

A t-shirt, a toothbrush, her purse, the cark-keys.

An open door.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: Knight's Errand

Days of searching turned to weeks, becoming no less frantic as time marched, battalions of minute soldiers pounding at her frustrated mind with relentless precision. (She thought she would scream; she caught herself reeling in a deep breath; she gritted her teeth and hissed it back out between them and was very quiet.) She went about her business, questioned people as closely as she dared, knowing that not only would his enemies have already covered any and all bases, but that if she let on what she intended to do (because it was stupid, insane, utterly stupid, utterly insane, a series of acts that no rational person would ever consider) then some well-meaning person would undoubtedly try to stop her. Try to return her to her senses. Try to prevent her from finding him.

She needed to find him.

Desperation didnt quite cover it; she knew only that it was somehow deeply necessary, inextricably linked with whatever it was that allowed her to keep breathing, even in the midst of the panic attacks that closed up her throat and froze her heartbeat. She knew he was out there, and she was sure that he needed her. She had to keep on.

She kept on.

It shouldnt, strictly speaking, have been possible to find him. He was trained to hide himself when necessary, trained to disappear. Maybe to not ever have been; it must be some kind of skill. Not one that she would want, but undoubtedly useful in his line of business.

Which surely wouldnt be his line of business any more?

It didnt bear thinking about, actually. If she was very careful, she could almost totally ignore the twinge of guilt she felt every time she remembered the way they met, the way he spoke (strange and kind) even when he told her that her fathers life was to be ransomed with a phone call. Very good at what he did, no doubt of it.

She wondered how long, how long exactly, hed been watching her before the plan actually went into effect. If his eyes had lingered. If his breath had caught. If his mouth went dry, as he watched.

She could still feel his fingers.

It wasnt so much the scars that burned, as the scorches his eyes had left on her skin.

It was necessary to keep on, and so she did. She now saw herself as one of the soldiers, marching forward on a twisted path that led, ever steadily, downwards. Where did it end? She didnt know, and she learned to mask her fright at the thought of finding out. She avoided her father as much as she could; he was the only one who knew her well enough to suspect that she hid something in her turned-away eyes. On the phone her voice was thin, her cheer forced. His was fatherly and warm with undertones of suspicion.

ANo. No, Im fine. Its hard lately, work has been grueling, theres some real jerks out there, but I knew that, anyway, when I started, so its not that much of a surprise. No, I cant delegate this sort of thing, these customers are very touchy, they only want to deal with the boss, and these days Lauren is off on some sort of never-ending cruise, so Im the boss, I guess. No, I cant.

No.

Leave me alone.

Stop asking questions.

She lied well. In fact her job was nothing more than a series of delegations to various underlings, favors that she asked of them, commands that they could have ignored; but no one wanted to. They were more than a little tentative and careful when she was around, still wary of bringing up unwanted memories to her. They were, frankly, afraid shed have a breakdown in their presence. They were afraid theyd be the ones to call the men in white coats to take her away.

Everyone was afraid; she was the only one who seemed ready and willing to function with fear, to live with it. She almost learned to love it, and might have, had the concept of love not appeared so foreign to her, so strange and thoroughly unattainable. No, it wasn't love that drove her on, to search endlessly.

There are forces stronger than love. It's an optimistic conspiracy by the parents of the world, to tell their children that love conquers all, but there are forces far, far stronger. She couldn't put a name to it. She couldn't explain it.

It just was.

And as it was, it couldn't be ignored or forgotten, a dull ache just beneath her skin, covering her entire body. An ever-deepening chasm, widening the gap between her vital organs and the front she put up for those who watched her with keen eyes. She could tell a lie with the best of them.

When she found him, perhaps they could have a contest.

When she found him. No sooner a thought than an action, and she tried and tried and searched. Her eyes burned. Her bones ached. The door remained closed, and when she dreamed of something other than him, the knight's sword was on the backswing. It seemed almost alive, as though it hunted her. Hungry for prey, it reached to cleave, to finish the chasm that slowly built inside her. She felt bigger and older than the earth.

What shouldn't have been possible, was.

A strange house.

A strange man.

A frightening familiarity, and a sudden hitch in his breath.

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A/N: FF dot net has seen fit to delete all of my apostrophes. Sorry about that.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: Knight's Rival

It is a long time before he turns from the window. She wonders what he expects: his doom to have come at last? His own small personal Judgement Day, a tiny Armageddon? Or are his dreams as haunted as hers, did he know that she was on her way?

She supposed the gun that was pointed at her was a good indication of who he was expecting.

It wavers slightly as he sees who it is, then his grip firms and she can see his finger tighten on the trigger. She cries out and takes a step nearer.

"Stop," he says, and she thinks he is whispering; but she can see the livid red scar on his throat, unbound by any scarf or any concealment, and she knows that this is how he talks now; that arthritic croak in the back of his throat is all he can manage. She'd done more damage than she thought, and not quite enough, at the time. But she was instantly sorry for it now. That harsh, cruel whisper is a reminder of why he has good reason not to trust her, so she falters to a stop.

"I came for you," she said, unwisely, and his head jerks up, reflexively, startled.

"You came for me," he repeats. "Why would you do that, Leese."

Another half step and this time he doesn't command her to stand still; but he watches just as avidly as before, and she knows she stands on dangerous ground. Whatever softness it was that she had seen in his eyes when she first met him, it was cloaked and hidden now. She hadn't regained any importance to him except as an intruder that needed to be dealt with; it was still him first.

"I worry about you," she says, taking the high road and telling the truth, chancing the consequences: mocking or outright skepticism, a likely refusal to believe her. "I worry about them catching you and I know I'm insane but I couldn't help myself, I had to come."

He walks forward now, and though his face is still dark by the light from the window behind him, she can see the glinting in his eyes. He's intrigued and curious and dangerously skeptical. She stands still and bites her lip, willing him to see the truth in her eyes, hear the honesty in her voice. The gun is between them, and he brings it up to place it almost tenderly against her throat, the cold metal making her jump nervously though she tries to curb this reaction. He is very close, and his eyes are cold and they glitter like ice. She gets the feeling he's been in this room for a long time.

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you know I was going," he says, softly. "But it was dangerous. It still is, regardless of why you're actually here, two can't hide as easily as one, and they probably followed you." The gun drops suddenly and he looks at her with disgust. "If this is your notion of revenge, leading them to me, I say its pretty idiotic on your part to come in alone."

"I didn't lead anyone," she said desperately, "you have to believe me. I was very careful that no one saw me or knew where I was going, I didn't tell anyone. No one knows. I swear."

The gun is back at her throat, nudging, almost playfully, as his other hand explores the tendrils of hair that have come loose from her ponytail, twisting them around his fingers and pulling them tight, to see if he could hurt her. He's taken another step closer; when he shifts his weight, his belt buckle brushes against her waist.

"You swear," he says, with something near affection. "Listen, sweetheart, I'm trying to decide if I should blow your head off now or wait five minutes. The dumbest thing you ever did, in a lifetime of dumb things, is come here now."

"They're after you, aren't they?"

He tips his head towards her, solicitously. "What, no comment on my death threat? No hitch in your breath, no frantic panic, no stumbling backwards away from my odious presence—"

"_Jackson_," she says fiercely, "_Jackson_."

He seems almost struck dumb by her use of his name, whether or not it was actually his real one. That's how he introduced himself to her the first time; subsequently she relished calling him Jack, since he didn't like it. She was that kind of girl.

"Jackson," she says again, "you want to kill me, kill me. It'll make you feel better, go ahead and do it. I knew full well I was putting my life on the line coming after you, and if there's a fifty-fifty chance of my living or dying, well. Toss the coin, Jackson. Swing the sword, and see if I duck."

"It'll catch you," he said without thinking, and their eyes met again, sane and insane and full of wonder. Her gaze drifts; his mouth is too close not to be looked at, her dreams too real not to be thought of. She leans forward, and he slaps her across the face, looking wounded.

It wasn't a hard hit, but she reacts, and hits back. They both watch each other, warily, stunned, uncertain, angry. The gun is back against her throat, a threat, a power that he doesn't feel he can afford to relinquish.

"Don't lie to me," he hisses, that awful anguished whisper sounding crazy rather than angry, and clearly he is infuriated by this. "Don't you ever _ever _lie to me, girl."

Her hand on her face, holding the warmth of his hand onto her skin, not letting it flow away; "_I'm not lying_."

Its hard for him to breathe, he gasps and sputters and his chest heaves. His eyes dart nervously to the door, back behind him to the window, back to her as though afraid she'd leave. He steps backwards and waves her forward with the gun, motioning her towards him. She comes, towards the window, which he jabs at with the gun.

"They're probably watching," he rasps to her, "I know one of these days they'll do more than watch. Doesn't matter if I get taken in by the authorities or my own people, the outcomes the same. No one's going to let me get away twice. A slash to the jugular." A wry grin as he motions towards his scar. "Lots of blood and very effective, very messy. Trust me, I know. There's no recovering. I didn't realize it at the time, how _gentle _you were in comparison, but I guess I must have been distracted."

"Jackson," she says, and covers her face with both hands, blocking out the light. He takes her hands down, roughly, and forces her chin up so she has to look at him.

"I need to know what you're doing here, Leese," he tells her. "I need to know, so I can deal with it. As it needs to be dealt with."

"What hope do I have of convincing you?" she asks, helplessly.

"None at all," he assures her. But he's closer again, and the gun is still at the ready. She glances at it and then back into his eyes.

"I hate you," she says, "that's why I came." Before he replies, her hands take him by the throat, she presses on that scar with hurtful force; the gun wavers towards her head but he won't pull the trigger. She pushes the skin down and watches his air cut in half, just enough to stagger him, then lets up the pressure and pulls him the rest of the way towards her, stealing what's left of his air from his lips.

"I never wanted," between kisses, as he gasps and his eyes are wide and he hasn't yet begun to respond, "to be anything other than what I was," and he's understood now, his lips are softened, "but I see that all things color my perceptions," she can feel the gun at her back now, but not pointed, and the belt buckle she noticed earlier is pressed bruisingly against her, "and_ you changed me, you bas—_" He's succeeded now in cutting her off entirely, and forcing her attention back on the situation in hand.

She pulls at his shirt and he reaches and grasps but he won't let go of the gun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Knight Lost**

It was silent, apart from the noise.

Its a coldness against her in intimate places, metal-cold air and metallic gun that keeps her mindful of letting him get too eager. She pushes his hands away and tugs her shirt back into place. His own is unbuttoned, hangs loose, a slight expanse of narrow, hairless chest which she eyes compassionately for a moment, then takes his hand in hers; the one that doesn't hold the gun.

"Do you need this?"

His fingers tighten on the grip. Which? Does he need the gun? Or does he need her? He's assuming the gun, and she can tell. It disappoints her, this necessity of lethal weapons over herself. Let him try to kiss that metal, see how far he gets.

He might very well have already tried that.

She moves around him slowly, carefully, and trails her fingers down the line of his neck to that beautiful scar. He reaches up to catch her hand in his, his breath stopped audibly.

"You made your mark on me," he says, as though acknowledging a victory on her part, and her smile was not lost on him. The edge of his lip curl upwards in a sneer. "You're worse than I am," he says. "I was trained to be this way, to enjoy other's pain. You're like that naturally."

"Not normally," she contradicts him, and kisses his throat. "You bring out the worst of me."

"And you bring out the worst of _me_," he says, nodding so abruptly and so deeply that his chin strikes the top of her head, and she takes a step back, flicking her hair out of her eyes, tucking the strands behind her ears with both hands. "We're really very bad for each other, aren't we, Leese?"

"Positively lethal."

He reaches out and catches her chin, tilting her head sharply to one side, eyeing her neck hungrily. He looks like a wolf; a vampire who hasn't fed in far too long; a desperate man. "All in all it wasvery stupid of you to come here after me, Leese, notwithstanding the fact that I don't know how you managed it in the first place. Brilliant and resourceful you might be, a true modern empowered woman, but still amazingly, astoundingly stupid when it comes to things like these. You can chase me lustfullyall you like, but it really would have been much easier to hire someone closer to home." That smirk burns her, and her eyes narrow at him in definite anger.

"You're a jerk," she says flatly.

He laughs.

"Its very sad that you wouldn't have me any other way."

"How would you know how I'd have you?"

The gun is between them, ice cold presence forcing them apart. He steps towards her and she steps away. A neverending dance, a game, one for which there is no time. It makes her want to cry, that they can't seem to bridge the gap and stop wasting what little time there is left, but they are both too stubborn to let go. To fall. They both want to be the last one standing.

Another step forward, another step back. Ice blue eyes narrowed, trained on hers. His body tenses, his knees bend. Stalking her.

"Feel free to tell me." Rasp and whisper.

"This is ridiculous," she raps out, and turns away from him, folding her arms, striding towards the door. "I came after you for a reason, Jackson, and this... this isn't it."

He lets her reach the door.

"Please," he says.

So quietly as to be almost inaudible, which quite apart from the quality of his speaking voice, he might have intended it to be anyway. Nevertheless, its spoken, and she hears. She pauses at the doorway, one hand on the wood, sliding her thumb rhythmically over the grain, following the path laid out for her.

He doesn't want it to be acknowledged; just responded to.

"A little guidance would be helpful," she says, and neither are sure if its a plea to God or to him. His footsteps are light as always and she doesn't even hear him come up behind.

"I can't," he tells her, apologetically, "I don't know the way."

But they can turn together and hold each other, and still he can follow, himself, the path laid. Its easy to share dreams when you share sleep.

The knight strikes, once or twice, and goes clean through.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five: Knight Found**

It was cold in the room, and the impersonal surroundings made it seem colder. Lisa shivered at the touch of air on her bare skin, and shook at the touch of his fingers replacing it, displacing it, trying to warm and cooling further instead.

She traced his scars, the ones she'd made and the ones she'd newly discovered.

"How many others?"

His eyes are half closed; he's preoccupied with other things. Hesmooths hertumbling hair downover his chest, searching out patterns only he can see. "Hmm?"

She looks up and searches his face, catches his chin between thumb and forefinger and yanks it down so his eyes meet hers. "How many others fought back?"

"How many were like you, do you mean?"

"Yes. How many were like me."

Her cheek is against his chest, and she can hear the rumble of laughter build from deep within it, drowning out his heartbeat.

"None of them were like you, Leese."

She's so close, he can feel her smile.

"So what's left? What's next?"

"Why do you always ask questions? Why are you so anxious to move on?"

"I don't exactly have a monopoly on the question thing," she says, and slips an arm around his waist, trying to get closer to his unexpected warmth. She'd thought he would be cold straight through; it was the inhumanness of him that led to that expectation. She'd been pleasantly surprised.

"Moving on to what, anyway," he says, gently mocking. He slides a finger down the outer shell of her ear, pinches her earlobe and smiles lazily. His teeth gleam sharp in that sick dull light from the window. "Again?"

"Glutton," she purrs, and he laughs outright. "Tell me. Tell me what's left."

"Of me? Bones and dust. I'm exhausted. You've ruined me. You're wearing my shirt."

"I got cold."

"Sorry," he apologizes, and puts his arms around her, pulling her up further against him so her head is just underneath his chin. He plants a kiss on her forehead. "I feel eaten up."

She frowns thoughtfully. "I'm hungry."

He tips his head back against the pillow, and stares at the ceiling. Her face is against his throat, and she stares eye to eye with that ugly red scar. "Consumed," he remarks ruminatively. "Nothing left but a claustrophobic kind of thankfulness. I have a feeling you'd think I was being self-aware if I told you I was grateful."

"I think you're very pleased with yourself," she told him frankly. "I think you think it was all your doing, and I got the better end of the deal."

He shrugs. His shoulders are not broad, but they lead to extremely well-muscled arms. He's a working man. "Maybe we should try it again and find out. Its only fair, after all."

She finds this funny, and starts to laugh, into the hollow of his throat.

"Hey," he says, mildly annoyed, "don't snort on me."

She can't stop laughing.

He smiles instead.

His hand slips down her back.

There's a noise at the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six: The Pendulum Swings

* * *

**

It wasn't just the slight noise; it was that the slight noise prefaced the louder noise, and the louder noise became accompanied by banging on the door, rattling at the doorknob, and the rise of both of them from off the bed, her arms still clutched around his neck, his arm placed protectively around her waist, his hand reaching out, palm forward.

_Stop._

_Don't._

_No._

In his eyes a useless denial, and a moment later, a look that makes her stomach churn and heave. Suspicion, and directed at her. She can't look at the door, which shakes and begins to buckle, she can only turn her face into his chest and cry again on his skin. She feels his fingers close on her hip, a desperate pulse of a heartbeat underneath her cheek, and he's standing, and away from her.

Stark naked and beautiful in the dim light, his slim scarred form moving towards the door with a tentativeness that she hasn't seen in him before. He's strangely unsure. He's been in this situation before, there's no doubt of it, but it catches him unawares every time, and he still doesn't know what to do about it.

There's no help for the door; its coming open, slow but sure. He turns away from it with his breath escaping harsh from his harmed throat, his eyes stare blankly, unseeingly at her, and he takes her by the arm, just below her elbow, and yanks her up off the bed.

"Did you," he says, without breath enough to finish question, but she knows what he's asking.

"No!" she cries, screams. "You have to believe me, Jackson! Its not because of me!"

He turns her loose and she rubs at her arm. He strides toward the window, twitching aside the curtain impatiently, and heaves it up.

"Whether you knew it or not," he says, leaning out to let down the fire escape from its trappings on the brick wall near him, "it _is_ because of you."

She was already crying, she can't cry any harder, but she thinks her heart is going to escape from her mouth. She wraps the sheet around herself dumbly, watching with dull eyes as he twists away from the window. She sees the bullet hit before she hears the sound of its escape from the gun; it misses its intended target and strikes instead the clock radio on the table by the TV. She hadn't expected there to be so many sparks from such a small object, electronic or not. Without thinking, she blows in that direction, willing the spark into raging life as a fire to burn them down before they die.

The spark dies, instead.

Jackson's form is half-clothed now, as he pulls his trousers up and catches them swiftly around his waist, the zipper still undone. He's breathing hard, like he's been running, and his aching, exhausted body slumps at the shoulders, his arms hang loose at his sides, and he stares blankly at the unforgiving walls.

There's no tunnel to freedom, here.

His former adversary stands beside him, nearly naked, and just as frightened.

They look at each other, now, and know that there's no time left; they squandered what they had, or used it a different way than they could have, or maybe if they are allowed to look back on it years from now, they won't regret it at all. The everlasting knight stood there between them, stairs leading up and stairs leading down, all bases covered, all exits to freedom lost. The sword had hung at its height for as long as gravity could manage to allow, and now the door burst open and the blade began to fall.

Caught on the return.

She'd quested and searched and been followed.

She didn't know, she never quite found out, if it was police or his own former organization. The outcome was the same, and this time there was no sound at all; just the roaring in her ears, to see him at her feet,and life disappear, as the sword found its mark. She cried for timelessness as all around her people rushed and hurried, and cried because she was spared and he was not, and cried for all the everything that had gone wrong, because the whole time she'd known him, she hadn't ever gotten what she wanted.

A life with him.

Not a death; a_ life_.

So she stood, the sheet still around her, and the marks of his fingers and his tears and his love still on her, more indelible than any scars. They, the inexplicable but undeniable They, wouldn't let her remain; but hustled her off and down the stairs and out into the street and into a car and along roads she didn't know and back into her father's arms, with admonitions that he watch her more closely this time. Her last sight before she closed her eyes for all of this was Jackson's face turned towards her, eyes still open though bloodied.

She let herself believe that he had blinked.

She told her father that she had wandered into oblivion and only just found her way back.

She lived her life in vain hope and hidden search.

She let herself believe.

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**Many thanks to all my readers and reviewers! Y'all were great.**


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